by Vikram Seth
‘But he’s a young man, Malati,’ said Savita, placing her hands on her stomach, almost as if to protect the baby from this conversation. ‘He won’t listen. He overworks, and I can’t get him to take his duties less seriously.’
‘If he listens to anyone, it’ll be to you,’ said Malati, getting up and putting her hand on Savita’s shoulder. ‘I think he’s had a bit of a shock; now is probably the best time to talk to him. He has to think of you and the baby too, not only his duties. Now I’ll just go back and see that he comes home immediately, and by rickshaw.’
Mrs Rupa Mehra would have marched into the English Department herself to rescue Pran if it hadn’t meant leaving Savita behind. Savita for her part was wondering what she could tell her husband that might have greater success than her pleas had had so far. Pran had a stubborn streak and an absurd sense of duty, and might insist on continuing to stand on the strength of them.
12.12
His stubborn streak was being exercised at this very moment. Pran was alone in the staff room with Professor Mishra, who had discovered, though not much to his alarm, that the scene he had happened upon when passing the door of the classroom was not an enactment of Shakespeare, but, rather, real life. He liked to be well informed about things, and he asked the students a few questions. He settled the visitor he had been escorting in the office of the Head of Department, and went off to the staff room.
The bell had just rung, and Pran’s colleagues were unsure whether or not to leave Pran to go to their own lectures, when Professor Mishra entered, smiled at them and at Pran, and said: ‘Leave the patient to me. I shall cater to his every whim. How are you, dear boy? I have asked the peon to get you some tea.’
Pran nodded gratefully. ‘Thank you, Professor Mishra. I don’t know what came over me. I’m sure I could have continued to lecture, but my students, you know—’
Professor Mishra placed his vast, pallid arm on Pran’s. ‘But your students are so protective of you, so protective,’ he said. ‘That is one of the joys of teaching—contact with one’s students. To inspire them in a lecture, to make them think, after forty-five minutes, that the world has changed for them, that it is somehow different from one bell to the next. To open out for them the heart of a poem—ah! Someone said to me the other day that they considered me to be one of those teachers whose lectures students would never forget—a great teacher like Deb or Dustoor or Khaliluddin Ahmed. I was, he said, a presence at the lectern. I was just a moment ago telling Professor Jaikumar of Madras University, whom I was escorting around our department, that it was a compliment I would never forget. Ah, but my dear fellow, I should be talking of your students, not my own. Many of them were intrigued by that charming and extremely competent girl who took charge a little while ago. Who was she? Had you ever seen her before?’
‘Malati Trivedi,’ said Pran.
‘It’s none of my business, I know,’ continued Professor Mishra, ‘but when she asked for permission to attend, what reason did she give? It’s always gratifying when one’s fame spreads beyond one’s own department. I believe I’ve seen her somewhere before.’
‘I can’t imagine where,’ said Pran. Then he suddenly remembered with a shock that it was probably at the dreadful submersion of Holi.
‘I’m sorry, Professor Mishra, I didn’t get your question,’ said Pran, who was finding it hard to concentrate. The image of Professor Mishra floundering in a tub of pink water was getting the better of him.
‘Oh, not to worry, not to worry. Time enough for all that later,’ said Professor Mishra, puzzled by Pran’s look of anxiety and—what almost appeared to be—amusement. ‘Ah, here’s the tea.’ The subservient peon moved the tray backwards and forwards in deference to his imagined wishes, and Professor Mishra continued: ‘But you know, I have been feeling for some time that these duties of yours really are rather onerous. It’s difficult to shrug some of them off, of course. University duties, for example. I heard just this morning that the Raja of Marh’s son had been to see you yesterday in connection with this unfortunate fracas he got into. Now of course, if anything were done to him, it would outrage the Raja himself, rather an excitable sort of man, wouldn’t you say? One makes enemies on a committee such as the one you sit on. But then, the acceptance of power is never without its personal costs, and one must do one’s duty. “Stern daughter of the voice of God!” Only, of course, it cannot fail to tell upon one’s teaching.’
Pran nodded.
‘Departmental duties, of course, are another matter entirely,’ continued Professor Mishra. ‘I have decided that if you wish to be released from the syllabus committee. . . .’ Pran shook his head. Professor Mishra continued: ‘Some of my colleagues on the Academic Council have told me frankly that they find your recommendations—our recommendations, I mean—quite untenable. Joyce, you know—a man of most peculiar habits.’ He looked at Pran’s face and saw that he was making no headway at all.
Pran stirred his tea, and took a sip.
‘Professor Mishra,’ he said, ‘I’ve been meaning to ask you: has the selection committee been constituted yet?’
‘Selection committee?’ asked Professor Mishra innocently.
‘To decide on the vacant readership.’ Savita had been prodding Pran about the subject lately.
‘Ah, well,’ said Professor Mishra, ‘things take time, things take time. The Registrar has been very busy of late. But we have advertised, as you know, and we hope to have all of the applications in soon. I’ve glanced at a few, and they are strong, very strong. Excellent qualifications, excellent teaching qualifications.’
He paused to give Pran a chance to say something, but Pran remained determinedly silent.
‘Well,’ said Professor Mishra. ‘I don’t want to discourage a young man like yourself, but I believe that in a year or two, when your health has settled, and everything else has stabilized—’ He smiled sweetly at Pran.
Pran smiled back. After another sip of tea, he said, ‘Professor, when do you think the committee will meet?’
‘Ah, now, that’s difficult to say, very difficult. We aren’t like the Patna University, where the Department Head can just get a few people off the Bihar Public Service Commission to sit on the committee, though I must admit I can see advantages to that system. We have this needlessly elaborate system of selecting our committee members: two from a Panel of Experts—and the Chancellor’s nominee—and so on. Professor Jaikumar of Madras, who saw your’—he was about to say ‘performance’ but checked himself—‘your distress just now, is on our Panel of Experts. But a time that’s convenient for him to come to Brahmpur may not be convenient for someone else on the panel. And now, as you know, the Vice-Chancellor has himself been keeping such indifferent health that he has been talking of retirement. Poor man, he hardly finds time to chair selection committees. Everything takes time. Ah well, ah well, I’m sure you sympathize.’ And Professor Mishra stared sadly at his large pale hands.
‘With him, with you, or with myself?’ asked Pran lightly.
‘How acute!’ said Professor Mishra. ‘I hadn’t thought of that. A fertile ambiguity. Well, with all of us, I hope. Sympathy does not run out by being generously bestowed. And yet, there is too little genuine sympathy in the world. People always tell others what they want to hear, not what they feel is truly in the interest of the other person. Now, if I were to advise you, for instance, to withdraw your application for the post of reader—’
‘—I wouldn’t do it,’ completed Pran.
‘Your health, my dear boy. I am only thinking of your own health. You are driving yourself too hard. All these articles you’ve been publishing—’ He shook his head in gentle reproof.
‘Professor Mishra, my mind is quite made up,’ said Pran. ‘I would like my name to go ahead. I’ll take my chances with the committee. I know that you will be on my side.’
A look of bland ferocity passed over the Professor’s face. But when he turned to Pran he was entirely soothing.
‘Of course, of course,’ he said. ‘Some more tea?’
Fortunately, Professor Mishra had left Pran alone by the time Malati came to the door. She told him that Savita was expecting him at home and that he was to go home by the rickshaw that was standing outside.
‘But it’s just across the campus,’ Pran protested. ‘Really, Malati, I’m not crippled yet. I walked all the way to Prem Nivas yesterday.’
‘Mrs Kapoor’s orders, Sir,’ said Malati. Pran shrugged, and complied.
When he got home, his mother-in-law was in the kitchen. He told Savita to keep sitting, and put his arms tenderly around her.
‘Why are you so stubborn?’ she said to him, his tenderness causing her anxiety to flare up again.
‘We’ll be all right,’ whispered Pran. ‘We’ll all be all right.’
‘I’m going to ask for a doctor,’ said Savita.
‘For yourself, not for me,’ said Pran.
‘Pran, I am going to insist. If you care for me, you’ll take my advice now and then.’
‘But my magical masseur is coming tomorrow. He cures both my body and my mind.’ Seeing Savita continue to look worried, he said: ‘I’ll tell you what—if I don’t feel fit after his kneading and pummelling, I’ll see a doctor. How’s that?’
‘Better than nothing,’ said Savita.
12.13
‘This skill is a gift of Lord Shiva—it came to me in a vision—in a dream—suddenly, not by degrees.’
The masseur, Maggu Gopal, a tough, stocky man, was rubbing Pran all over with oil. He was about sixty, had very short-cropped grey hair, and kept up a continuous patter which Pran found very soothing. Pran was lying flat on his stomach on a towel in the verandah, and was wearing only his underwear. The masseur had his sleeves rolled up and was tweaking Pran’s rather scraggly neck muscles in a determined manner.
‘Ai!’ said Pran, wriggling a bit—‘that hurts.’ He spoke in English, as Maggu Gopal’s patter was entirely in English, except for quotations from Hindi. The magical masseur had been recommended to Pran by a friend, and had agreed to come twice a week. He was rather expensive as masseurs went, but he had massaged Pran half a dozen times, and Pran always felt better after his visits.
‘If you always move, how you will improve?’ asked Maggu Gopal, who was fond of rhyming couplets in his own way.
Pran obeyed and was still.
‘I have been masseur in high circles—Chief Minister Sharma, some High Court Judges, two Home Secretaries also, and many Englishmen. And I have a handprint of all these dignitaries. It is all grace of Lord Shiva—you know, the snake God’—he felt that Pran, as a teacher of English, needed such explanations—‘the God of Ganga and of the great Chandrachur Temple which is now ascending daily in Chowk.’
Some pummelling later, he said:
‘This til oil is very good—it has the warming properties. I have rich clients also—many Marwaris of Calcutta know me. They are not taking care of bodies. But I say the body is like finest vintage car, of which there are no spare parts available in the market. Therefore it needs service and maintenance from competent engineer, namely’—and here he pointed to himself—‘Maggu Gopal. And you should not care about expense. Would you give your Swiss watch to the incompetent watchman because he charged cheaply? Some people sometimes call servants, like Ramu or Shamu, to do their massage. They think it is in the oil only.’
He paused, boxed Pran’s calves in a businesslike manner, then said:
‘Talking of oil, mustard oil is not good—and is internationally prohibited in massage. It stains also. The pores must breathe. Mr Pran, your feet are cold even in this weather. It is weak nervous system. You think too much.’
‘Yes, I do,’ admitted Pran.
‘Too much education is not good,’ said Maggu Gopal. ‘Ninth standard, non-matric; somehow still I learn the trick.’
He twisted Pran’s head violently and looked straight into his eyes.
‘You see this boil here on your chin—it is a sign—I will not say a sign, an indication—of constipation—a tendency to constipation. All thinking people—that is, I mean, all those who are thinkers—have this tendency. So you must eat papaya twice a day and take a mild laxative tablet—and have tea without milk, with honey and lemon. And you are too dark—like Lord Shiva—but nothing to be done about it.’
Pran nodded in so far as this was possible. The magical masseur released his head, and went on.
‘Thinkers, even if they eat boiled food and light food, will be constipated—their stomachs will not be soft. But your rickshaw-wallahs and servants, even if they eat fried food, will not get it—because they are doing physical labour. Always remember:
Pair garam, pet naram, sir thanda
Doctor aaye to maro danda!
This saying I have translated for Englishmen:
Cold head, soft tummy, warm feet.
If doctor comes, you may him beat!’
Pran grinned. He was feeling better already. The magical masseur, reacting promptly to his change of mood, asked him why he had been sad.
‘But I was not sad,’ said Pran.
‘No, no, you were sad.’
‘Really, Mr Maggu Gopal.’
‘Then you are worried.’
‘No—no—’
‘It is your work life?’
‘No.’
‘Your married life?’
‘No.’
The magical masseur looked doubtful.
‘I have had some health problems lately,’ admitted Pran.
‘Oh, health problems merely?’ said the magical masseur. ‘That you can leave all to me. Remember, honey is your god. You must substitute honey for sugar always.’
‘Because honey has the warming qualities?’ suggested Pran.
‘Exactly!’ said Maggu Gopal. ‘Also, dry fruits should be taken in plenty, especially pistachio, which is very warming. But you can take assorted dry fruits also. Agreed?’
‘Agreed!’ said Pran.
‘And take hot bath in tub, and also sun bath: sit in sun and face the sun. Recite the Gayatri Mantra.’
‘Ah.’
‘But it is also your work, I can see.’ Maggu Gopal grabbed Pran’s hand with the same painful vigour with which he had twisted his head. He examined it carefully. After a while he said in a solemn tone: ‘Your hand is most remarkable. The sky is the limit of your success.’
‘Really?’ said Pran.
‘Really. Consistency! That is the secret of success in any art. In order to obtain proficiency, you must have one goal—one track—consistency.’
‘Yes, indeed,’ said Pran, thinking, among many other things, of his baby, his wife, his brother, his nephew, his sister, his father, his mother, the department, the English language, the future of the country, the Indian cricket team, and his own health.
‘There is a saying of Swami Vivekananda: “Rise! Awake! Stop not—until the goal is achieved!”’ The magical masseur smiled assurance on Pran.
‘Tell me, Mr Maggu Gopal,’ Pran said, turning his head sideways, ‘can you tell from my hand if I will have a daughter or a son?’
‘Turn over please,’ said Maggu Gopal. He examined Pran’s right hand again. ‘Yes,’ he said to himself.
Turning over on to his back had made Pran start to cough, but Maggu Gopal ignored this, so intent was he on gazing at his hand.
‘Now you see,’ he said, ‘you, or rather your missus, will have a daughter.’
‘But my missus is sure she will have a son.’
‘Mark my words,’ said the magical masseur.
‘All right,’ said Pran, ‘but my wife is almost always right.’
‘You have a happy married life?’ Maggu Gopal inquired.
‘You tell me, Mr Maggu Gopal,’ said Pran.
Maggu Gopal frowned. ‘It is written in your hand that your married life will be a comedy.’
‘Oh, good.’
‘Yes, yes, you can see—your Mercury is very strong.’
‘I s
uppose I can’t escape from destiny,’ said Pran.
This word had a magical effect on Maggu Gopal. He drew backward slightly and pointed his finger at Pran’s chest. ‘Destiny!’ he said, and grinned at Pran. ‘That is it.’ After a pause he continued:
‘Behind every successful man is a woman. Behind Mr Napoleon there was Josephine. Not that you have to be married. I do not believe it. In fact I predict that you have had auspicious women in your life before and will continue to after marriage.’
‘Really?’ said Pran, interested, but rather fearful. ‘Will my wife like this? I fear my life may become a comedy of the wrong kind.’
‘Oh, no, no,’ said the magical masseur reassuringly. ‘She will be very tolerant. But the women must be auspicious. If you drink tea made from dirty water you will fall ill. But if you drink tea made from deluxe water it will refresh you.’
Maggu Gopal stared at Pran with some fixity. Seeing that he had got the point, he went on:
‘Love is colour-blind. Caste does not matter. It is karma—which means actions according to the vicious of God.’
‘The vicious of God?’ said Pran, bewildered, before he understood what Maggu Gopal was getting at.
‘Yes, yes,’ said the magical masseur, pulling Pran’s toes one by one until they made clicking and cracking sounds. ‘One should not get married just for bringing tea in the morning—or for sex or anything.’
‘Ah,’ said Pran, with a sudden sense of enlightenment, ‘just for living day to day.’
‘Today! Yes! Do not live for yesterday or tomorrow.’
‘I meant from day to day,’ explained Pran.
‘Yes, yes, it is all the same. Family life with children is a comedy, both today, yesterday, and tomorrow.’
‘And how many children will I have?’ asked Pran. He had lately begun to wonder whether he should be bringing a child into the world at all, a terrible world of hatred, intrigue, poverty, and cold war—a world that was unlike even his own unsettled childhood in that the safety of the earth itself was now threatened.
‘Ah, exact number is in wife’s hand,’ said the masseur regretfully. ‘But once there is delight in your life through one child, it is like a tonic, a chyavanprash—and then the sky is the limit for offspring.’